A Matter of Character

When I opened FaceBook today, the first thing I read was a posting from my 24-year old daughter, which read:

 ME:   They are outlawing homelessness in Tampa by making it illegal to sleep in public.

YOU:  Good!

ME:    Packing my things and leaving.

I’d be packing, too. The post would be funny if the subject matter wasn’t homelessness.   One can find a jerk anytime at the bar on the corner; who in their right mind wants to live with one?

We who are not homeless really do have a moral responsibility to gain understanding about and show compassion for those who are homeless. It is awful that some folks still believe one becomes homeless because of "personal moral failure," as if the scarcity of jobs and affordable housing hardly plays a part. 

Back in the early 90s, there was an average of 900 applicants for each blue-collar job opening, and, precious few affordable housing units were being built then, or have been built in the past 20-plus years. Today, things are much worse, with well over half of our entire population jobless or, living paycheck to paycheck, precariously close to becoming homeless.  The dire situation of homelessness is truly an indictment on our society we are doing nothing to remedy. Heck, just taking away the tax break rich folks get on their vacation homes could fully fund rent subsidies nationwide for low-wage earners in need.

I feel a lot of compassion for homeless people, and find difficulty in judging them for turning to drugs and alcohol to numb their pain.  I think about just how much my mental health would be jeopardized if I had to stand and walk around every waking moment, rarely finding a safe place to sit or lie down, free from being looked down upon (and/or harassed) by passers-by and law enforcement.  How does that Christian saying go, “There, but for the grace of God, go I?”

A friend recently shared a story with me about her attending a public meeting where homelessness was the topic of discussion. When a homeless man went to the podium to speak he asked the audience to please stand, which they did. Then, he gave his talk and then just turned and went back to his seat in the audience and everyone sat down. He never explained his request for folks to stand while he talked, and hopefully, those in the audience got it. The exercise offered a tiny glimpse into what it must be like to struggle to find a safe place to sit, much less lie down and sleep, in the community.

This daughter of mine has always been a great person.  While a teenager in high school, she did an amazing thing that showed the content of her character. Just having picked up some tacos for dinner, we were stopped at a traffic signal when my daughter asked, “Mom, will you share half your food with me?” I laughed at her while saying, “Yes, of course!” thinking she was making some kind of joke.  In the blink of an eye my daughter let down the car window and handed over her food and drink to a middle-aged homeless woman standing on the curb with a sign begging for food. The woman was so hungry she immediately began unwrapping the food with shaky hands and eating, not able to wait the little bit of time it would take to walk away from the street and find a place to sit. The traffic signal turned green for us to go a few seconds later. As I drove off, the homeless woman, through tears of gratitude, shouted to my daughter over the noise of the traffic, “Thank you!”  I reached over and handed one of my two tacos to my daughter, as tears began to well up in my own eyes at her spontaneous act of kindness. We ate in silence and later agreed: those were the best tacos we had ever eaten.

Yes, I’d say she would be packing . . . if the scenario in her FaceBook post were about her.

Whites Only

I was eight years old in 1963, swimming with my brothers and sister at Forest Park swimming pool, the only community pool (at that time) in our hometown, Fort Worth, Texas. It was a very hot day and the water felt wonderful as we splashed about. As I played, something caught my eye that made me stop and survey my world. I saw an image that haunts me to this day.

There was a ten-foot high chain link fence all around the pool area. On the outside of the fence, with their fingers curled through, and their foreheads pressed against, the diamond shaped openings in the links, there stood a row of very young, barefoot, children, staring at me and all the other children cooling off in the pool. Each of the children clinging to the fence had dark skin of different hues, a sampling of the many black and Hispanic families that lived on “their own” sides of town.

I cannot now recall which of my siblings I asked, but I wanted to know why those kids outside the fence were there and not in the pool playing with us.  It was explained to me that they had “their own” day to swim in the pool. My young mind could not find any logic in this; those children were sweating and clearly as miserable from the heat as I had been prior to jumping into the pool.

The pool was huge and there was plenty of room, so, of course, I asked why there would be such a dumb rule.  It was only after I was told that it was the “whites only” day at the pool, that I began looking around. I was shocked to realize all of the people in the pool were white. Before this jolting enlightenment, I had just seen people, without regard to their race. A strong wave of shame washed over me, shattering my innocence, as I realized it was not they who did not want to swim with white people, but the other way around.

I felt dizzy and a huge knot formed in my gut. I sat alone in the shallow end of the pool for a long while, desperately trying to sort things out in my mind. I was deeply confused. Every Saturday morning I spent two hours in catechism class at my church, learning about how we are all God’s children. If the white people in the pool and the brown-skinned children outside the fence were all equal in God’s eyes, why did white people make “white days” and “colored days” for using the pool? I could see no reason for this rule. I simply saw the children of color, hanging on the outside of the fence thirty feet away from where I sat, as being no different from me. I suddenly felt very alone, even though a sea of people surrounded me.

The other big thing bothering me was why no one else in the pool but me seemed disturbed by the exclusion of these little children, based solely on the color of their skin. If they could be invisible from the consciousness of the rest of my family and all the other people in the pool, then I might become invisible, too. I stared at the children, studying their faces, which were dripping sweat from the heat of the day. And, even though each had sparkling eyes, their faces wore expressions of deep sadness which made my heart hurt.  After that, I was never the same. This was the first of several other “whites only” incidents that I encountered in my youth, even after the 1964 civil rights act was passed.

In 1991, I had the occasion to take my own three young children to that very pool back in my hometown. I had recently moved back to Texas after spending 11 years in various places on the West Coast. It was a terribly hot day and the pool was packed. As I swam and played with my children I suddenly began to weep. Unsure about what I was feeling, I assured my children that I would be alright, explaining that I just had some old memories take me by surprise.  I went and sat alone in the shallow end of the pool to think. The pool and surrounding areas looked exactly the same as in my childhood.

The same tall chain link fence surrounded the pool, and my gaze riveted to the spot where those children with brown skin had pressed their faces up against the outside of the fence. I could see the features of their faces with my mind’s eye as if I had first seen them yesterday instead of 28 years prior.  I felt overwhelmed as I looked all around the pool, watching the children, white and brown-skinned, playing in the water together, as they should have always been allowed to do.

Recalling how segregation at this swimming pool in my childhood, first opened my eyes and my heart to how much racial inequality hurts people, I then understood why I had wept.  A moment later my kids, and some others whom they had befriended, charged at me splashing and laughing, bringing my mind back to the present.  That day after swimming, I told my children about how the racial segregation of long ago at that public pool had upset me, and helped shape the activist adult I had become.

empty as a pocket, with nothing to lose

Well, my fingers are stiff from the swelling of arthritis and my mind is fuzzy from... what? What is causing my brain to short circuit? Mid-sentence I cannot think of the next word I was going to say, sometimes. Five minutes after I see something, I cannot recall what I saw, sometimes. I have trouble remembering details, sometimes.

Someone with whom I used to be close commented a few months back the reason she no longer made time to sit and talk with me was she didn't like hearing me repeat things. Remembering her words makes me shudder, feeling old and worn out, no longer useful or entertaining. I've become an annoyance, like a lamp with a loose bulb. My brain flickers on and off, sometimes. It is very disorienting and scary. Is it a temporary condition or the start of something more sinister?

Is it because I am depressed, or, is it the antidepressant medication I take? You know, they do not tell you that you will still feel depressed, even though you take the meds. I find it oddly amusing that the only difference is that being depressed seems to matter less. I think the reason most people go off their medication is because it doesn't make their depression "go away," and they mistakenly think it should. The holidays are especially tough times to get through for those of us struggling with depression.

I am surprised to see that my last post was a year ago. It seems like just a few months have passed. Has it really been two years since my beloved Patrick died his horrible death at home from esophageal cancer? I still miss him so. He was a Brooklyn, New Yawk man with a heart as big as Texas. A little short man with very long arms that could reach all the way around my oversized body, to wrap me in delicious hugs, sweeter than double-fudge brownies topped with Hagen Daz coffee ice cream.  A kind and loving man, not easily forgotten, who treated all he met as if they were the most important person on the planet. My own short-comings are the reason that happy memories are no match for the profound grief I feel, because he certainly left me with many wonderful memories. When I'm alone I still hear his deep voice and gentle words in my ear, singing to me as he often did. My heart aches in my chest and tears burn hot paths down my cheeks, then drip down to soak my shirt. My nose runs and I don't want to wipe it. Just let it drip, like the pain oozing its way out, slowly, slowly, a little at a time. It used to be daily, but has now been weeks since I last cried. I don't yet know if that is a good thing.

It has been months since I had a hug. As a person who thrives on acts of affection, I am dying of thirst as if in the Sahara. My secret pocket is empty. You know? The imaginary pocket where we store all the magic warm fuzzies? Those are the feelings we get from the warm embrace of a child, a close friend, or a lover, which can be stored in the secret pocket next to our heart, to be brought out as needed when there's no one around when we need a hug. And, now that I am in rural Oregon, with no children, grandchildren, family, or close friends nearby, I find it very hard to get through each day.

Everything in and around me is empty. I found a place to live one week ago, so my bank account is empty (after shelling out $1,204 for a lease.)  I came to Oregon with only what fit into 3 suitcases so my new house is empty. I spent all morning on the phone trying to find a bed. I had to beg the Rescue Mission furniture store two blocks from my house in downtown Roseburg to give me a bed, since I have no money and my air mattress went kaput at 6:15 this morning, tossing me and all my blankets onto the floor. The task of getting off the floor and into my wheelchair was so pitiful it was comical. And, after crying about my knees hurting, I did laugh, because I was so happy I did not have to call the fire department guys to help me get off the floor.  My refrigerator is empty, never mind it is 3 days before Christmas (my disability and widow's benefits make me ineligible for food stamps.) 



As empty as I feel right now, there are things for which I am grateful. Today, it was having friends get out in the rain to bring over and set up, my beat up old donated bed.  I am grateful for the friends and the bed.

Even though I am poor and my depression has me by the throat today, it is the little things that make me feel rich, sometimes.


My life right now is pretty much like Paul Simon sings about on Graceland,  

"Empty as a pocket, with nothing to lose...  but she's got diamonds on the soles of her shoes."